Monster
by A Faint Memory Once Recalled
Summary: On the evening of July 22 in Germany, Italy was raped. With police still searching for the culprit, but hitting all dead ends, Italy has no choice but try to move on. The path of healing is hard, especially when the person responsible is still on the run. Struggling with his new fears and feelings, Italy doesn't know what to do. But then he starts finding letters from that man...
1. Chapter 1

**Yeah, it was extremely stupid for me to write another story, but never fear! This one I'm actually writing with a friend (though this first chapter was completely me), so I'll still have plenty of time to work on Bruises and Excuses! Anyway, I hope this isn't too bad, and I hope you like it!**

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It had been a boring, rainy day in Germany, and up to that terrifying point when he found himself with pinned against a dirty alley floor, it had been fairly eventless.

He'd been visiting his best friend, which he did nearly every day, when he had decided he wanted to cook for a little while, once again a daily thing. However, the lack of milk in the fridge was a problem. It was strange, because Germany usually remembered these kinds of things as where Italy usually forgot for the most part. Seemed as if the tables were turned.

"Hey, Germany! We're outta milk! I'm gonna go get some! I'll be fine by myself!" That was his first mistake.

"Be careful, and be back soon!" Germany had called back, not even looking up from the aged book in his hands.

His second was going to the closer but smaller and shadier store near his friend's house.

The last one would and would always be _him._ _He_ seemed nice at first, that excuse for a man. He was charming, and looked like the stereotypical German. Blonde hair and blue eyes, yet he could see the tint of green in his irises and the lack of sufficient muscles that differed him from Italy's Germany. Not to mention his facial features were completely unlike his friend. It was normal conversation inside of the store, at first. (Hello there, what's your name?) (Feliciano, but you can call me Feli!) However, it suddenly turned sour when he began flirting with the brunette. Italy, being the nation he was, wasn't unfamiliar with the gesture, but he was more the slow type who got to know his lovers well before going to that level. And the other was obviously making things uncomfortable very quickly. So he said his goodbyes and began to walk home with the milk in his grasp, before a rough hand covered his mouth and waist and pulled him towards an empty alley.

"Feli, we're going to have some fun~" a voice taunted in his ear, and Italy realized with horror that this was the German he'd been talking to earlier that night. The look in his eyes that he'd mistaken for friendliness was now clearly lust. He tried to yell for help and fight back but something was quickly shoved into his mouth, and the petite nation was no match for a person of this human's body type and found himself pinned. "God, look at you..." The man whispered. A few moments later, he went to remove the other's clothes, and when the brunette underneath him squirmed, he spoke again, mercilessly hitting the nation across the face. It would end up bruising terribly. " You fighting will just make it harder, so just let it happen."

In the next two hours, Italy screamed himself hoarse into the fabric in his mouth, tried to stop it from happening, but to no anvil. After that, when he had tired himself out and just accepted it, he just stopped, crying silent tears onto the ground and letting out a pained cry every once in a while. It was finally over a half hour later, and the man left with "We'll meet again, Feli!", and honestly the poor Italian couldn't even move.

It was even a little while before anyone even found him. It had been dark and it was a less populated part of town, and it had been late at night. There had been no one around to hear him struggle, and those he had were definitely not law-abiding citizens, and they knew better than to get involved. But someone must have, because someone asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital, and through all of his murky thoughts, he sorted out the questioned and whispered back a 'no'.

For a while, everything hurt and he was extremely disoriented and confused. He barely even registered the red and blue lights or the deafening sirens, a blanket around his shoulders, or phone dialing. Only when he heard his friend and brother's name did he respond.

"Ludwig... and Romano..." he whispered, and even that soft tone was beyond painful. He had been gone quite a while... Germany had probably been worried sick...and rightfully so, he saw now. He curled into himself and waited. One of them would probably be here soon. But, weirdly enough, Italy almost didn't want them to come. They had seen him in lots of other compromising states, but this... He didn't want them to see him like _this_, blood smeared, covered in bruises and bite marks, but...at least...he took in a shaky breath. He was happy the paramedic had given him some clothing. It had hurt _everywhere_ to slip on but he didn't want to be nude in front of all these policemen or paramedics or curious onlookers or... Or, it seemed, in front of anyone ever again. He swallowed thickly, looking down as his clenched, pale fists.

And he waited.


	2. Chapter 2

A clock chimed somewhere, calling it's song twelve times, biting into the emptiness of the dark that surrounded the half-asleep nation. Groggily, he sat up from where he'd rested for a moment. But, he thought slowly, it'd been more than a moment, hadn't it?

Glancing around the still-silent room, a uneasy feeling rested in his stomach, causing him to stand and cross the room, only to flip the light on, as if it would hold some answer to the feeling. None was given. He shouldn't be feeling this way. It was just from his sleep, something he'd dreamed. That had to be it, right?

So, he decided he was hungry and pushed the feeling to the corner of his mind, hiding it behind everything else he needed to deal with before the night was over.

Let's see... He had to finish that paperwork that was due in a few days, and he should start on the next bit. He should contact his brother, who'd disappeared for a few days. (It was normal. Most of the time he'd find the nation visiting, read: annoying, someone else.) He needed to sleep. Oh! There was something else he needed... What was it...?

The nation just shook his head. He'd remember it later. Casually, he maneuvered his mind to a late dinner (not uncommon) and ignored the nagging feeling in the recesses of his mind. Well, first he needed to...

As the thoughts dragged on in that direction, he reached into the fridge and grasped air. Where was the milk? Italy had... Italy! Where was he?  
He'd left hours ago. Why wasn't he back? Or was he? Even though he'd told the other nation to wake him if he ever fell asleep, Italy would usually let him sleep. So, maybe he'd come back seen him sleeping, and left again to give the younger (how odd was that?) time to sleep.

He reached for the phone in his pocket, intending to call Italy when it rang loudly, shattering the thick silence that had enveloped him. Checking the id, he expected to see the familiar Feliciano :3 (He'd gotten a hold of the phone a while back). His stomach dropped when he read Local Police instead.

What happened?

As soon as it registered, he picked up with a hesitant "Hello?". The man on the other end carefully explained the situation. They'd found a man named Feliciano in an alley, appearing to have been raped. It appeared to have been a while since the offender had left; Feliciano's blood had dried. They'd checked his phone, calling the two i.c.e numbers, his own and Romano's. And now, the man was telling him that he needed to pick Feliciano up, because Romano said that it would be a while before he could be there (Even though he'd probably be there within the hour).

Quietly, he replied that he would be there in a few minutes. As he hung up, horror took over all emotion. It was his fault, wasn't it. He was the one that hadn't picked up the milk earlier. He was the one that didn't tell Italy where to go. He was the one that let him go out on his own.

Numbly, he ran out of the house, not even registering the rain that pelted him. All too quickly he found the scene, stopping at the outer edge of the crowd, glancing worriedly for a glimpse of his friend. And when he caught that glimpse, the nation froze.

There, standing in the rain Germany realized just how much he'd messed up this time.


	3. Chapter 3

After what seemed like both an eternity and yet no time at all, droplets began to sprinkle here and there. Before long, it was full out pouring, and the rain dripped from his hair and soaked the oversized clothes clinging to his body. Soon after that, he noticed a familiar face standing there in the crowd, completely frozen. Even with all of the other Germans around him, _even in the rain_, Germsny was too easy to distinguish. While everyone else's faces were a mix of morbid curiosity and mild uninterest, he could see all of the very different emotions etched on his face. Clear as day. He had always been able to read him like a book, hadn't he?

Pity. Shock. Fear. Horror. However, one emotion dominated them all. Pure, undiluted regret. In the back of his mind, he had expected hate. Disappointment. Annoyance. He almost thought that he might even be disgusted. Italy wasn't even strong enough to stop himself from getting raped. He was a man, he had been through wars, hell, he was the freaking personification of Italy! All of that training so many years ago had really gone to waste. Pathetic, right? But...He hadn't even... Why was he...? Italy didn't understand, and certainly wasn't prepared for this reaction. He swallowed thickly, looking back down at his shaking hands, lower lip trembling.

Even if he knew exactly what his friend was feeling, he didn't even know what he himself was feeling at this point. He was just so...so...numb. Completely numb. He felt nothing. Like he hadn't even accepted what had happened to him yet. His fists clenched and unclenched because he really _hadn't_. This couldn't be real, this couldn't have happened, because_ these things don't happen to nations,_ even weak ones like Italy, _because that just didn't happen_. That was the way it was. Until now.

That was when Romano appeared, his eyes wide and worried as he slammed the car door (it's price be damned) and immediately made a path to his brother. He didn't even notice anyone else. At that moment, Italy was all that mattered. Not even Germany could distract him from his mission. Without hesitation, Romano reached out to touch his fratello. "Feliciano, are you-" The other flinched. Romano stopped. Hesitated. His eyes widening more, he returned to full standing position, his eyes darkening with each moment.

That was the angriest that Italy had ever seen his brother, and that was a feat in itself.

When Romano was angry, truly, undoubtedly angry (which didn't happen too often), he was silent at first. Completely silent. The calm before the storm, Spain said once. Uh oh...Then he would start to look for someone to blame and once he had-

That's when the older of the Italians noticed the blonde, and eyes full of fury, he stormed his way over and pointed an accusing finger. "This is your fucking fault!" he whispered harshly, and even with all of the conversation and sirens and the pelting rain- he still was clear as a bell. "If he hadn't been visiting you, if you'd gone with him, or if you actually fucking _gave a shit_, then this wouldn't have happened! The one fucking time he needed you you weren't fucking there! The only person I hate more than you right now is the fucking bastard that.." He trailed off, not needing to say any more. Except when he did.

"I hope you fucking realize how much this has fucked up my brother, because I can already_ tell."_

That's when Italy realized just how _completely terrified_ Romano actually was, because even if he was furious he wouldn't have said something as cold as that. No, he was worried and stressed and in shock, maybe even more than his little brother was.

_These things didn't happen to nations_, it never had before, and none of them knew how to deal with something like this. Not at all. They had dealt with death and loss and pain, but never anything remotely close to this situation.

_And they were afraid._


	4. Chapter 4

**I've been working on the chapter for Bruises and Excuses, but I've been really busy ^^; Here's a chapter not written by me but my co author on this story with the pen name Annalease. You can find her here on fanfiction dot net but I don't think she's posted anything in a long time. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!**

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Germany wasn't sure how long he stood there. All he knew right now was the guilt. It was his fault that Italy was that way. It was his fault that he'd gotten... It was his fault he didn't protect the other more, or teach him ways to get out of such a situation. It was all his fault.

He was soaked by the time Romano made his way over. It wasn't hard to see how furious he was, or how much he rightfully blamed the German. The words did nothing but confirm the guilt, but it still felt like a stab in the chest. He had caused this. It was his fucking fault.

The Nation dropped his head and turned it away from what he had caused. In that moment, a mask was built, one that would hide the emotions he felt. One that would hide the tears he wished to cry. One that would hide the cracks that had formed in the old. One that would allow him to hide.

Those old cracks... They'd been caused by Italy who'd gotten too close. He'd let some cracks form, while others just appeared. Smiles, laughs, any emotion other than ones that would allow him to complete his work had begun to show in the years past. He hadn't minded then. Sure, he'd been bothered by it, but he hadn't thought it would cause anything like this. It just reminded him why he'd locked up those emotions. Because emotions caused such things like this. Emotions caused him to slip and let this happen.

And so, the new mask was formed, and it would stay crackless, lest this happen again.

Germany looked up, feeling cold. "I know..." he muttered in response to Romano. He turned his gaze to the smaller Italian, and felt his heart hurt. He'd caused all of that. All the bruises, all the cut and bites. Everything.

In that moment, though, he needed to go to Italy, even though the other must hate him for this. Romano did.

So, he carefully made his way through the crowd, stopping only when an officer asked him who he was. Stating that he was Ludwig, and that he had been called, the man let him through, not asking anymore questions.

He stopped in front of the small Italian, and crouched down so he could be face to face with him. Other than that, Germany didn't know what to do, or what would be allowed by the other. He didn't know yet the level of hate the other would have for him. It would be great, though. It had to be.

"Feliciano..."


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the situation, a small smile tugged at the edge of his lips, but it was a bitter one more than anything. "Ludwig..." he rasped quietly, his dark eyes flickering upward at the blonde once he'd heard the familiar voice and name. "You...came..." He almost thought he wouldn't. Almost thought he would have felt too ashamed of him to come. Too disgusted.

It was _his_ fault after all. All the things he could've, should've, done. He knew how to fight back, didn't he? The brunette couldn't make excuses. All of the ways he could've gotten out of it, and he freezes, not gaining the ability to move until it's far too late? He hadn't been trained to do that. Germany would have reacted, stopped it before it even began. He stiffened at the thought.

What would the other nations say? They would probably think he was pathetic, careless, asking for it. He was weak Italy, right, but he was a man, one who should have been able to prevent what happened to him. His face burned and shame overwhelmed him. He doubted he could go to the next world meeting comfortably with these thoughts.

Desperate to change the subject in his mind, he glanced down again at the hands he'd once loved, shaping life into paintings and statues. His fingers were long and delicate, his palm shorter and detailed with long spidery lines, none of the thick ones Germany had on his. They were dirty now, earth and mud covering his wet palms, his fingernails torn and chipped, and bruises had long since formed along his wrists, perfectly shaped like fingers. But they were still his hands, no matter what he wanted, his hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Moving. He just wanted them to stop. Just- He swallowed thickly. He wanted all of this to just stop right now. Rewind. Go back to before this, before that man decided to pull him into the alleyway, before he left that night, before all of this. Back to when he could smile carefreely _and when his hands wouldn't shake why were they shaking_.

These were the hands that could have thrown a punch, these were the hands that could have defended him, but were too weak to even move. Italy didn't like them at all anymore.

"It's cold and my hands won't stop shaking..." he mumbled suddenly, strangely mesmerized by the limbs that wouldn't stay still. He was in shock. He needed to go to the hospital and get stitched up. He was wounded. Probably needed a lot of therapy. Italy wasn't dealing with it, shoving memories away but not the feelings. He needed help. Bad. He already knew all of that. But somewhere along the line, he somehow just didn't care anymore.

He just wanted his hands to stop _shaking_, but that wasn't what he really wanted, was it?


	6. Chapter 6

Germany observed the other's shaking hands, and shoved away the rising emotions. For some reason, he hadn't become mad yet. He hadn't sent the German away. And it baffled him to no end. But, this was Italy, was it not? He never blamed anyone for anything. Even when it was so obviously staring him in the face.

He'd figure it out eventually, and run from him forever. And Germany would be alone again. But, it'd be what he deserved, wouldn't it? He deserved to be alone for what he'd inflicted on his best, and only, friend. This is what happened when he let people get too close. They got hurt. Even his own brother... He was a monster.

But, this monster had a duty right now, since the small Italian hadn't sent him away. He had to protect Italy, and pray that he didn't hurt him again. Knowing Germany, though, it'd happen again, because he couldn't even keep it from happening once. He had to try, though. At least until, inevitably, Italy left to find safety among those that could keep him safe.

When that time came, Germany wouldn't even try to stop him. He was better off where he'd be safe from the German and the dangers that followed him. Death and hurt followed him like a shadow, and he'd ignored the fact. He'd been too happy to have someone that cared for him again. But it bit him again and again, taking those he loved away from him. Rightfully, though, for he caused these sort of things when he became too comfortable. So, he wouldn't stop Italy. It was for his own good. He would no longer be in danger.

Germany looked up calmly at the words, trying to leave his nagging thoughts behind. He was almost successful, but chose to focus on the Italian instead. Italy's hands were shaking. Pale and shaking. He was in shock, wasn't he. Italy needed to see a doctor, the German's rational mind spoke, but his heart told him Italy wouldn't want to. Though his heart had gotten them here in the first place, he chose to follow it again. It would be the last time, he swore silently.

He observed the shaking hands a moment longer, finding them slowly unnerving him. They shouldn't be doing that. The Italian's hands didn't shake. They painted. They cooked. They created. They didn't shake. Shouldn't shake. Couldn't shake.

So, despite all his defenses telling him not to, he slowly, carefully reached out and took the small, pale hands in his own. Even if it was just to stop the shaking. Or, maybe it was an attempt at comfort, something he could never get the hang of. It was just another thing he couldn't do. Even with the shadow, he was never able to help those he'd hurt. He'd just given up after the third time. He'd just let go, trying no longer. But, he'd try one last time, because he couldn't just give Italy up.

Despite all the times he'd just given up, he couldn't let go of Italy like he had the others. It made him... afraid... to think of life without the other. He'd become so accustomed to seeing the Italian, hearing his voice, feeling his presence. It seemed impossible to live without him. He couldn't just give up. So, Germany would try. One last time.


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm so sorry about the shortness of this chapter, but... here it is... **

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That was Germany, his Germany, to do that. If it had been any other day, any other situation, he would have smiled brightly and laughed, saying something about how Germany never did this but _he should_ and it was nice and Germany had gone all red and_ that was so cute_. Instead, however, he focused on those hands anchoring him to reality, feeling the tension from the quick movement fading.

Those hands, so much larger and strong, eclipsed his own, support and care bleeding from the contact (which was difficult to understand, deep in his mind). They didn't feel like _his_ hands, _that man's hands_, because Germany's were rougher, calloused from years of holding guns and building and just working. He liked them better, those hands, that held him and protected him even now, when he had been so_ weak_ and _stupid_ and _why couldn't he just-_

That was when the mental wall he had built for himself finally cracked and broke, and he was suddenly flooded with emotions he had no idea what to do with. The tears flowed, and he choked on his own breath. His shoulders shook with all of the feelings now overwhelming every pore of his body and he trembled. He wasn't okay. This wasn't okay. And he was so very scared and he couldn't even identify it all now that the numb was gone.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated hoarsely, over and over and over, the literal words and the meaning behind them alike blending themselves together and becoming a solid wave of pain and shame. There was so much he couldn't deal with but was there anyway, breaking him down, destroying him from the inside out, and there was nothing he could do except helplessly and hopelessly try and cope with it all, and it hurt so badly to even try.

He almost wanted to lock the all up again, hide them from himself, from everyone. Italy had never wanted to do that, much more prone to embracing what he felt other than hiding from it. But this time, he wanted the numb back. Anything but this.

And the rain poured


End file.
